Aubade (The Technique of Tenderness) by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Poetry
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Tender whispers
on warm creased pillows
as dawn breaks,
finally
we fall asleep
Legs entangled
Fingers entwined,
Eyelids heavy
with the promise
of love

Soft
bristle strokes
near the foot of the bed
immortalise
the passion
of our union,
and a secret joy
we’ve long held


David Cranmer’s poems, short stories, articles, and essays have appeared in publications such as Live Nude PoemsNeedle: A Magazine of NoirThe Five-Two: Crime Poetry WeeklyLitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His debut chapbook, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen, is now available. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

B F Jones is Punk Noir’s co-editor and writes Flash Fiction and Poetry. Her collection of interlinked stories, Something Happened at 2a.m. was published by Anxiety Press. She also has one flash fiction collection, Artifice, and two poetry chapbooks, The Only Sound Left and Five Years, all published by The Alien Buddha.

That Lonely Last call by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

The dose of poison
to stifle
the living dread
is up
three fold
what it took
when I first slid
down the longneck chute.

The warm embrace
gone too quick
no longer enough
until
the next brief moment
of abandon
at the arms of an ephemeral ghost.

What had died
and spiraled
too far,
can be glimpsed in
that lonely last call.



David Cranmer’s poems, short stories, articles, and essays have appeared in publications such as Live Nude PoemsNeedle: A Magazine of NoirThe Five-Two: Crime Poetry WeeklyLitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His debut chapbook, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen, is now available. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

B F Jones is Punk Noir’s co-editor and write Flash Fiction and Poetry. Her collection of interlinked stories, Something Happened at 2a.m. was published by Anxiety Press. She also has one flash fiction collection, Artifice, and two poetry chapbooks, The Only Sound Left and Five Years, all published by The Alien Buddha

2 poems by David Cranmer

David Cranmer, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

Twilight Falls and the Monsters Are Due

The unbidden lurks,
as anxiety mounts
over life’s frailty
—setting off a burst of barks
that fails to beat it back.

The seed is sewn,
the weight takes root.
Even my girl playing
“Chopsticks” as a lark,
can’t change the weather.

I don’t scream into the wind,
or whine, blaming the universe.
I take it in, absorb the blows,
mercy will come
by daybreak.


Limelight

Thank you for sitting with me
in the limelight
of a Charleston, West Virginia, hotel
that’s seen better days.
The white hot light is dimming
and we both know where this is going
but thanks for playing along,
you saying it’s going to be all right.


David Cranmer’s poems, short stories, articles, and essays have appeared in publications such as Live Nude PoemsNeedle: A Magazine of NoirThe Five-Two: Crime Poetry WeeklyLitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His debut chapbook, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen, is now available. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

Ashes to Ashes by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine

We’re gone all too soon,
suddenly,
just particles drifting apart
bit by bit.
Immaterial clouds dancing
to the sound of a broken orchestra.

What I so valued,
our love,
won’t beat for another
twenty-three millennia or more
or maybe never again.

And I miss you so
as distance stretches
I fade away
while you float,
bright still,
and I cling to a memory
I wish to revive,
re-live maybe once again

——I choose
to believe in continuity,
gods just need time to reunify
under a faraway neon star.


Before Gravity’s Pull by B F Jones and David Cranmer

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry

I pull back from enforced darkness as
yellow rays from the lantern skip on
cobblestones, the street is too quiet
now as I paint a reflective past of a
time and place where you walked as a
god across my terrace, into my cafe

Materialising before
Me
Claiming the twilight and brightening the night
Sitting, sipping the drink I took to
You
Lips on the edge of a perspiring glass
Eyes on the horizon, on everything and
nothing,
On mine.

And the night slipped away
Giving way to numbered days

When the sun shone on a smiling you
When your laughter shattered the odds
Before gravity’s pull became apparent
Before our plans were ripped away.

I was thinking of you today, times past.


Summer evening, 1947 by David Cranmer and B F Jones

B F Jones, David Cranmer, Mashup, Poetry


A quiet evening with you, on the veranda,
Light illuminating your golden hair.
You in that tube top and gazing down
Smoldering flame. Smoldering out,
Til all that remained were dark skies
To keep company with memories of you.

A quiet evening with you, hot air waltzing,
stale look in your dirt brown eyes.
And in your mouth, words you no longer mean.
The burning light of longing having slowly
tarnished, a flicker growing ever faint,
Since that first morning, after.


“No Line for a Common Thread” by David Cranmer

Beat To A Pulp, David Cranmer, Poetry

“No Line for a Common Thread”  

Talk  

Small talk   

Surface talk   

“How’s the weather?”   

“What a sweet baby!”   

“Nice to see you again!”   

Temporary exchanges  

Signifying little to nil   

Just daily superfluous asides   

Make up a shared human experience  

Make for a distinct human misery  

For those who find socializing hard  

Talk equals emotional dread  

No line for a common thread  

Riding the slow train to  

Pull the right words but  

Falling short and  

Left wanting  

To fade  

Out.  

BIO: David Cranmer is the editor of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and whose own body of work has appeared in The Five-Two: Crime Poetry Weekly, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, LitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. His forthcoming poetry collection, Dead Burying the Dead Under a Quaking Aspen will be released by Close to The Bone (December, 2021). He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.

2 Poems by David Cranmer

Beat To A Pulp, David Cranmer, Poetry

Hangman

I leave them hanging, 

nothing to say.

An inattentive friend,

nothing to do 

with them. 

Why not then

erase limbs, body, head 

—and scaffolding. 

No more games.

I wish I may, I wish I might

But can’t, truths 

aren’t welcome. So I don’t answer 

texts, return calls, and I leave 

them on the gallows,

with nothing to say.

Whither Are We Drifting?

From my bedroom window I see 

a poplar tree in the stronghold of a

thick, brown vine spiraling up its trunk.

I pour another ounce of brandy into my 

morning cup of coffee, and wonder if 

the tree is fine with a slow demise, too.  

BIO: David Cranmer is the editor of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and whose own body of work has appeared in such diverse publications as The Five-Two: Crime Poetry Weekly, Needle: A Magazine of Noir, LitReactor, Macmillan’s Criminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. Under the pen name Edward A. Grainger he created the Cash Laramie western series. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter.